


Pills in a Cupboard

by Nonesane



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Post Reichenbach, Pre-Slash, You can see him too? - Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-04
Updated: 2012-03-04
Packaged: 2017-11-01 03:50:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/351655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nonesane/pseuds/Nonesane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is home. John is doubtful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pills in a Cupboard

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by a bit of text that's been floating around Tumblr:  
> http://becauseitsfunnycuteawesome.tumblr.com/post/17166116969/screams
> 
> Also, Una Mattina was written before I could finish this. It's good, go read it:  
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/335082

Sherlock had been expecting violence or some other form of physical contact. He hadn't been hoping for a hug. Of course he hadn't, and he hadn't been disappointed when none seemed to be forthcoming, no matter that the twist in his gut pretended otherwise. But this...  
  
John was just sitting there, in his usual chair, reading the paper and smiling. "So you're back?"  
  
A punch in the gut would have been preferable. Bruises and broken ribs healed, _ this _ Sherlock wasn't so sure would.  
  
"Did you buy milk?" There was an edge of laughter to John's voice and it all began to make sense, though in an irritatingly slow manner. Though John had never been as predictable and boring as most of the rest; it would only make sense that his reaction to this would be fairly extraordinary, wouldn't it?  
  
"I never remember to buy milk, you know that," Sherlock returned the joke and took a seat in his usual chair. Or rather, what  _ used _ _ to be _ his usual chair and he had to close his eyes for a bit to soak up the feel of it all – of sitting there, in Baker Street, in  _ his _ chair, with John right next to him, like nothing had ever been wrong.   
  
The silence that followed was anything but comfortable. John was obviously upset. It was written clear as day in how his fingers fought to not clench around the edge of the newspaper, in how he refused to bring the damn paper down and look at Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock distracted himself by deducing John's most likely course of action when he'd finally react (because he would, one way or the other). John was holding his breath now and most likely counting down from ten, so anger appeared to be the most prominent emotion at the moment. Punching seemed to be on the menu after all and Sherlock would gladly take both one and five of those, if it would make John stop this silly charade and look at him.  
  
To his own surprised, Sherlock found himself gritting his teeth. He quickly unclenched his jaw. If John chose to punch him in the face, his teeth would take enough punishment without being scraped down to the roots beforehand.  
  
Except... No, thinking about that wouldn't help. This was definitely worse than simply trading one wound for the other. If John didn't avoid teeth and nose this time around, he couldn't really be blamed.  
  
The front door opened and closed. Sherlock fought back the thrill of knowing Mrs. Hudson would be bringing tea up in a minute. He could smell the baked goods she'd brought, freshly made and still warm from the shop two streets down. There would be none for him, of course, but that didn't matter in the least.  
  
The silence stretched out between them like a...well, Sherlock had never been that good with metaphors. John kept staring at the paper. Not turning the pages, not reading, just staring and frowning; at least that's what his posture hinted at. Sherlock found himself mimicking said posture, sitting ramrod straight and tense.  
  
"I'll just go take the damn things," he heard John mutter under his breath, as footsteps began ascending the stairs. He got out of his armchair and walked into the kitchen, before Sherlock could make any inquiries about exactly what needed to be taken (but if he was to be honest with himself, he was pretty sure he already knew and that set his teeth on edge and his gut aching).  
  
Mrs. Hudson was carrying a tray – it was obvious when one listened to the weight of her steps and the faint clink of china – and the scent of cinnamon rolls grew stronger. Sherlock didn't get up, instead keeping his attention focused on John, who was opening and closing cupboards as if he'd misplaced something. Or maybe put it away too long ago to be easily remembered.  
  
There was no saving the tea tray. It smashed to the ground with a crash the next door neighbours must have heard. Hopefully no one would call the police; this would be difficult enough without the risk of Lestrade or any of his colleagues showing up.  
  
Sherlock didn't move, didn't smile, only watched as Mrs. Hudson gaped and stared, her eyes wide as the saucer now lying shattered on the carpet.  
  
"Sherlock," she finally managed to gasp, voice muffled by the hand she had pressed against her lips and her eyes were suspiciously wet.  
  
That would have been a good moment to say something reassuring, but John's sudden reappearance in the room grabbed Sherlock's attention.  
  
John wasn't looking much better. In fact, he looked worse. Where Mrs. Hudson was merely wide-eyed and shaken, John was leaning on the corner of the wall that turned into the kitchen and visibly trembling, like he was recovering from an electric shock or hypothermia. No tears though.  
  
"Y-you – you can-" he babbled, his eyes darting between Mrs. Hudson, the broken teacups and Sherlock's chair that still had Sherlock sitting in it. It all ended with John's eyes locked with his and a soft, broken: "You're here. You're really here."  
  
Sherlock wanted to say _Of course I'm here, you idiot,_ but because he'd been listening for it, he'd heard the faint thud of a plastic bottle full of pills hitting the floor, moments after the tea tray.  
  
"Sherlock Holmes," Mrs. Hudson said and it was hard to tell if she sounded angry or overjoyed. Her face was equally shifting, tears rolling down her cheeks, brow knotted into a frown and grinning like all Christmases in the world had come early. "You will tell us how you've come back to life and you will do so right now!"  
  
There might as well have been a 'young man!' added to the end of that sentence.  
  
Sherlock didn't argue. Instead he let Mrs. Hudson usher him over to the couch by the far wall and didn't protest when she sat down next to him and held one of his hands in both of hers, in a very motherly gesture. John followed them on shaking legs and more slumped than sat down on Sherlock's other side, eyes fixed unblinkingly on Sherlock's face.  
  
It was almost a relief to distract himself from John's hollow, searching gaze with tales of his not so suicidal suicide.  
  
The first three months he'd spent at the tender mercy of Irene Adler (which would have been almost bearable, if she'd actually taken advantage or mocked him for it; he knew pity when he saw it) he glossed over, as much for his own dignity as her protection. The rest was a year long cat-and-mouse game with Moriarty's underlings, which he found himself summarizing far quicker than he'd planned to.  
  
Molly got her moment in the limelight, of course. It was well deserved.  
  
"I'll go make us some more tea," Mrs. Hudson said at last, once Sherlock had explained the business with Sebastian Moran. "You boys have a lot of planning to do I should think." She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief as she walked, completely ignoring the wet stain and broken china as she passed them by.  
  
Sherlock looked at John out of the corner of his eye. There was still that worn-out, haunted look about him, mixed with something not unlike desperation. It couldn't go ignored any longer.  
  
"How long?"  
  
John answered immediately while covering his face with his hands, rubbing at his eyes as if to stave off a headache. "Two months, ended eight months ago." The palms of his hands muffled his voice, making it sound even more hollow than it had the first time around.    
  
Sherlock swallowed, his mouth suddenly very dry. "The medication?"  
  
"All over the kitchen floor, thanks to you," John said and gave a weak laugh.  
  
The silence that followed was long, uncomfortable and had Sherlock's heart beating a mile a minute (though he'd never admit to that, afterwards).  
  
"I used to talk to you, you know." John's voice was barely over a whisper, his head still in his hands. "The first week I was sure you'd come back, had pulled some stunt and I was..." He mad a noise similar the stifled groan of a man who'd just been punched in the gut. "Mrs. Hudson caught me yelling at 'you' for hiding my credit card. That's when I decided to move out."  
  
Sherlock didn't comment, keeping his eyes locked on John's face; what little of it he could see.  
  
"It got worse." John's voice shook, but only for a second. "You kept coming around, complaining that I'd left, that we had a case and I...I began to see clients, too. They'd follow you up the stairs or knock on the door, saying you'd sent them, until I got myself on medication. And then I moved back here, because hallucinating your dead best friend isn't the best of things to put on your CV and Mycroft's been paying the rent for this place since you..."  
  
A deep breath. "I've gone mental again, haven't I? Because I'm pretty sure I can conjure up a Mrs. Hudson along with you, should the need arise."  
  
It took Sherlock a second to answer, but only a second:  
  
"Moran must have poisoned you." The realization that had been growing at the back of his mind bloomed to life as swiftly as any explosion. "The case, what did you call it? The Hounds of Baskerville!" A smile that had to look quite triumphant made its home on Sherlock's lips. "He must have gotten his hands on something similar, something he either ran out of or that was counteracted by the medication you were prescribed. How else would you suddenly manifest symptoms like hallucinations, at your age."  
  
John shook his head. "It's not unusual that-"  
  
"Has anyone in your family suffered a similar condition?" Sherlock interrupted as he got up and made his way out into the kitchen. None of his equipment had been moved, which made him pause for a moment.  
  
"No, but-"  
  
"John," Sherlock cut in again, making sure to stay visible from where John sat while still getting a good look at the tools available, "how long were your previous episodes?"  
  
"Two-three minutes. Ten at most." A note of what could be hope had found its way into John's tone of voice. He'd straightened up and taken his hands from his face, to glance down at his watch and then over at the kitchen, his eyes skirting over Sherlock, to the cupboards and then, with trepidation, back to Sherlock.  
  
"What did you do, when you saw 'me'?" Sherlock grabbed the first aid kit they always kept under the kitchen table and opened it up as he spoke.  
  
"I," John began, staring at him again, but this time with a shifting look in his face, as if he couldn't quite decide what his emotions were. "Usually, I went for a walk. Fresh air seemed to..." He trailed off, his eyes growing wide.  
  
Sherlock gave a laugh and pulled a syringe from the first aid kit, then dug out an old cup of tea from the under the mess on the kitchen table. "Fits very well with my hypothesis, don't you think? And how do you suggest Mrs. Hudson's tea set ended up on the floor? It's still there, look!"  
  
The relief that washed over John's face as he laid eyes on the broken china had Sherlock grinning even wider - though he doubted the relief had anything to do with the last piece of evidence.  
  
"I'm ready to bet quite a lot of money that I'll find something of interest in your food, were I to examine it. Maybe not the fresh stuff, but I'm quite sure this tea is anything but. And if you give me the address to your old apartment, I'm quite sure we'll find something interesting there as well. Possibly in the tap water. I'll talk to Mycroft about the sloppiness of his guard personnel tomorrow."  
  
John was laughing now. It wasn't the right laugh, the laugh he associated with John at peace or happy, but it was a step up from the sad excuse for one he'd heard earlier.  
  
"I think I hate your brother." The half-smile that tugged at John's lips belied his words.  
  
"Good." The door to Mrs. Hudson's apartment opened. "And here comes our second attempt at-"  
  
"Sherlock." John had stood up and grabbed him, turning him around so they were face to face. There were tears now, though from anger, relief or joy Sherlock couldn't say, which would annoy him later. "Don't **ever** do this to me again. Ever!"  
  
They both knew it was a promise he couldn't keep. John's grip on his arms was painful, yet reassuring.  
  
"I'll do my best."  
  
****  
  
He put John to bed without Mrs. Hudson's help; John who looked about ready to faint, who was pale as a sheet still and far too quiet.  
  
"Don't..." John faltered and brought one hand up to rub at his mouth, a frown wrinkling his forehead.  
  
Sherlock simply sat down on the bed and waited. After a moment of just staring at each other, Sherlock shrugged off his jacket and threw it on the floor, then pulled down the covers as best as he could without getting off them and made himself comfortable, facing the wall.  
  
John followed suit a little while later, for once not bothering to fold his clothes. He twisted around for a bit and by the shifting of the mattress Sherlock judged he'd ended up facing the wall as well.  
  
They'd slept like that before, during cases. There had been hotel rooms, abandoned houses and even a tent that one time, but it'd always been to keep warm or because there wasn't enough room to do otherwise.  
  
Sherlock made sure to shift occasionally, rearranging the pillow, moving his legs closer to or further from the wall, sighing and yawning.  
  
If John took notice of this out of character behaviour, minimal though it was, he said nothing. Instead he placed a hand on Sherlock's back, tracing a random, hesitant pattern from the back of his neck, over his shoulder and down, only to go back up again, to touch his hair. There was nothing sexual or exploratory about it. It felt more like reassurance, like John was making sure he stayed solid.  
  
They'd go to John's other apartment tomorrow and fine comb it for clues. There had to be some. And if there was none, he'd demand Mycroft plant some. He'd spend the rest of his life lying through his teeth, if it helped John.  
  
There was still Moran to think about and his reputation to restore. But all of that could wait. He had John to take care of.


End file.
